


Rendezvous

by Oboeist3



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Human AU, Post-Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five men walk into a bar, and in their drunken stupor promise that should ever the world need saving, they would come to its rescue. Such an occurrence came up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of a Bad Joke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. I am not the author, I just write the author's notes. I also help come up with the plot, world, and general planning. You may call me Lame Super Hero. (Alternatively the author would prefer to be called Oboeist or Oboeist3.) 
> 
> This chapter is very Hetalia-esque, somewhat random and humor based, however subsequent chapters will be more FMAB-like.
> 
> We both hope you enjoy this and please, please provide feedback. We don't know if you like it if you don't tell us.

October 26th, 1918. It was a pleasant day, sunny and cloudless, with blue skies and a general romantic sense of happiness. Perfect, thought a young blonde, for flying in. Eyes as striking a blue as the sky they now darted through looked straight ahead, gloved fingers gripping the steering, edging the B-27 to full speed. Slow was boring, he thought, and Alfred refused boredom into his life.

 

It was a smooth, easy sort of flight though, with none of the usual hurry or panic set by the thunder of gun and shouts, dives and commands. For the moment, he was free from that. He kept checking his various navigational equipment, not having a gunman to assist as he might usually, but he was right on course to his intended destination. Amestris.

 

The country was famous of course, even back in his home, which kept to itself as much as possible. A fierce, military orientated nation, scraped out a pot of barbarous and old feuds, surrounded by all sides by those who would wish it gone, and yet still standing, still fighting.

 

It was a bit of an inspiration for the young man really, those valiant heroes, especially after the coup that threatened to end them around his second year of higher education. Months he had spent, ears pressed to the radio, getting what limited information slipped through the cracks. He's even done a project on it, over the issue of whether or not the military could run a state without corruption. He refused to believe it impossible though. There were enough good people to do it.

 

He was snapped out of his daydreaming by a loud beep from his instruments, indicating to him a slight temperature change, which nevertheless could mean a lot more this high up. It was also the main sign he had left the desert, which coughed heat into the atmosphere like a great bellow. However, now that he was probably in Amestris, a new problem presented itself, where to land.

 

There were no formal airstrips here, trains were their main form of transport, and while their military was of a high caliber, their air force was menial, and left something to be desired. His best bet was perhaps to do so out here, in the country, where there were wide fields and less people, but Alfred was selfish. He wanted to see Central, the library, command, the heart of the nation. To land out here would delay him several days at least, time he couldn't waste in the boonies.

 

So he flew on, and with a great deal of luck and some draws on his all too common experience, he landed in a warehouse district on the north side of town just as the sun set. It was the kind of place you didn't go unless you needed to, not because of it's occupants, but it's lack thereof. It was all machines and cranes, eerie in the low light. Alfred was quick to be rid of it.

 

He was tired after his long flight, nearly ten hours, longer than the initial one after his deployment to the front. Knowing it too late for anything of interest, he decided to search for a bar, a quick drink or two before he retired to some well deserved rest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After making his way out of the warehouse district and into more populated and better lit streets, he truly cast an eye at his surroundings. The buildings were orderly, set to some certain parameters, he expected, mostly made of white and grey bricks. The sidewalks were cobblestone, the streets a smooth concrete. It was almost unnerving how even it all was, like it was designed by some orderly other rather than by humans. Alfred's hometown was nothing like this. It had grown without order nor method, spreading out from it's center like so much ooze. Still, it also invoked a certain satisfaction even Alfred could not dismiss.

 

The people, on the other hand, were not so different from the ones back home. Some clothes were a bit old fashioned, he supposed, but the mix of families, single people, gooey young couples, etc,was pretty much the same, the main difference being the large amount of military uniforms about. But Central was a military city, so it wasn't a surprise either.

 

"Excuse me!" he said brightly, walking over to a man with spiky blonde hair and a cigarette between his teeth, knowing by the way he held himself that he knew this place. "Would you happen to know where a bar is? I've had a long journey and am in need of a good drink."

 

The man seemed surprised for a moment but shook it off quickly, a quick smile of his own showing up. "Heh, yea I know a place or two." he said, looking down at the man who was obviously not from around here, but he wore the military in his walk and his attitude. He kind of reminded the man of himself when he first joined up, wide eyed and hopeful. "Head straight down this street and turn right by the fruit stand, then follow the curve till you see the bar with the sign on it's window. You can't miss it." he promised, blowing out a tendril of smoke from his lips.

 

"Thanks man! Have a nice night!" said Alfred, walking off briskly in the direction he'd indicated.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sure enough, he soon arrived at the bar. It was not a particularly unique looking bar, not on the outside at least, made of the usual grey and white bricks, with low lying windows that could use a cleaning. However, the sign the man had been talking about certainly caught his eye.

 

All military personnel drink free.

 

A slow smile spread over his face at that, he was liking this place already! The prospect of a free drink got him through the doors in a flash, taking little note of the decor, (though it was no different from any other bar in that respect either.)

 

"Barkeep, get me a bourbon, if you can." he said, plopping himself down at the main counter. The barkeep in question, a elderly woman with deep set wrinkles and a slip of a smile, nodded, going to prepare the drink. It was then that Alfred noticed the man sitting next to him, another blonde with green eyes and some rather unfortunate eyebrows, making love to the glass of gin before him. Actually, making love was a bit too kind. It was more like hard fucking against the wall, quick and hard, over and over again.

 

"Rough day huh?" he joked, trying to start a conversation.

 

"Rough life." he said in response, his words lilted slightly in a familiar way.

 

"Woah! You're from Albion!" he said with that infectious spirit of his.

 

"And you from Amerigo obviously." he noted, some disdain in his voice.

 

"Yep! Proud of it too. But I'm being real rude now, aren't I? Alfred F. Jones, at your service!" he said with enthusiasm, gesturing outwards before taking a sip of the drink in front of him. It was a bit more bitter than usual, but he guessed Cola wasn't too common around here.

 

"Awfully so indeed. Almost as much as your butchering of our language." noted the man from Albion. "But if it gives you any satisfaction, I'm Arthur Kirkland."

 

"Artie....That's a nice name!" he proclaimed after a moment of contemplation.

 

"It's Arthur, you git." he snapped, turning his attention back to the gin. "But I am curious, what great atrocity did you have to commit to be exiled to such a awful nation?"

 

"Guessing you don't like Amestris much." he said with a chuckle. Another sip of bourbon. "I'm here on leave actually. A few weeks before I'm back on the front line." he spoke this as a fact, devoid of the emotion that had previously soaked his sentences. He was a willing participant in the army, but it didn't make it any less awful at times.

 

"Hmp. Not the place I'd have gone in my time. I guess the armed forces have changed since I was in them."

 

"You served?" he asked, though it wasn't so odd, now that he thought about it. Very rarely did he meet a man who drank like that who hadn't. "Where? What branch?" he asked, some enthusiasm returning to him. He'd love to hear a tale or two to distract from morbid thoughts that threatened to pop up.

 

"Be calm, you fool! Some people could be completely horrified by those sort of questions!" he snapped, not liking his chipper attitude. War wasn't a game. It was bloody and hard and exhausting on so many levels. Even a man like him knew that. Alfred flinched at it. Didn't seem he'd be getting any stories out of him. He was a grouch, you know the type. The one's that rather forget it entirely in the rim of the bottle than remember the good too.

 

"But luckily for you, I am not one of them." he said, almost apologetic, causing blue eyes to widen. Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye. "Five years ago, in Xing. The skirmishes between her majesty's government and the emperor, over Jaoyi, grew beyond what was expected. I was in the navy, their resident water alchemist." he said, the pride obvious in that last sentence.

 

"A blue shirt, huh?" he said, no wonder he was drinking himself pissed. Aside from the infantry, nav's saw more shit than anyone. "It's always a pleasure to meet y'all. One question though. What's an alchemist?" he asked genuinely, causing Arthur to look like he had been slapped.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Luckily before Arthur could begin his rant about alchemy and the Amerigan's own incredible idiocy, another man walked into the bar, the strange, uneven patter of steps grabbing Alfred's attention.

 

He was not tall but not short either, with somewhat long blonde hair at around his shoulders, (man there were a lot of blondes here!), and blue eyes like his own, but paler, with prominent bags under them indicative of a lack of sleep. He had stubble, but only on his chin, reminding Alfred of his own failed attempts at facial hair a few years ago, though this man was older than him, in his mid-twenties probably. His clothes were dark blue, but not like the many military uniforms he had already seen, a little more showy, especially with the cape draped around his shoulders and hiding his arms from view.

 

The man had a limp as he walked towards the bar, his face more desperate than any man Alfred had ever seen before.

 

"Good day, madame. I don't suppose you're in need of a cook?" he asked, what little hope he had left caught in those few words. When the women shook her head, he sighed, sitting down in the stool next to Alfred. "I knew it was a long shot. A bottle of red wine, if you please? If I'm going back, I'm not going back sober." he said, taking off the cape and revealing bare arms, only his right wasn't quite normal.

 

"Dude, your arm is made of metal!" exclaimed Alfred in shock, looking down at it. It seemed to be made of layers of overlapping metal, wires sometimes showing through the gaps and with a large, pointed end, like a knife but serrated and thinner, hiding the fingers from view. A bayonet, he recalled from his military history class.

 

"Never seen automail before?" asked the man, unhooking the bayonet-like weapon and using a button to put the knife part in the handle, like a switchblade, putting it in his pocket as if it were routine, which it was for him. Nevertheless, he found the shock slightly amusing, moving his arm so it was closer to the other blonde's face, moving the fingers into a fist before uncurling them. "Take a long look young man, this model's ancient." he joked, grabbing the bottle placed before him and popping the lid, drinking the wine like beer. Some part of him felt awful doing it, but most didn't give a damn.

 

"Wow..." he said, the curious soul in him soaking up everything. He'd never been much into medical, a bit too squeamish, but this was a fascinating piece of machinery before him. "What a strange prosthetic! I've never seen one programmed to move like this before!" he said, too engrossed to notice the boiling Albion man he'd forgotten about.

 

"It's automail, you idiot. It's not programmed to do anything. That frog's isn't even that recent. Why I've seen Estalians with more modern technology than that." he scoffed, earning a glare from the man.

 

"And who do you think you are, rosbif?" The insult was spoken with all the tact the man could muster, a contradiction sure to annoy a stuffy Albion like him.

 

"Arthur Kirkland, former commander in her majesty's navy. And you?" he said, his voice a sneer, looking down at him. The tension between them was stifling. Alfred felt like he was trapped between two forces of nature, each intent on destroying the other.

 

"Francis Bonnefoy. Currently in Cretan civil war." said the now identified man. "I've heard about you, Kirkland. The fourth son of a swindling politician, no wonder you joined the military. It's the only way you'd amount to anything."

 

"How dare you insult my family, you son of a bitch!" he said, about ready to lunge for him, but Alfred put a hand on each of the men's chests, holding them in place.

 

"Geeze guys, take it down a notch. I don't want to get thrown out of this place!" said Alfred, sending apologetic looks at the other patrons. The bartender however, was not so easily swayed.

 

"If you're going to get rowdy, at least go to a booth. This is a civil establishment and I'll not have your petty feuds disturb others." she said, pointing them towards one with only one other man in it, seemingly absorbed in a book before him. He had silvery hair and was obviously tall, even sitting down, as well as oddly unnerving in some indescribable way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing as there was no other choice, the three took their alcohol of choice and moved to the booth in the back, Alfred sitting down next to the unknown man, Francis and Arthur forced next to each other, much to their displeasure.

 

"Sorry for taking up your spot dude." said Alfred to the man, who was swaddled in such a large quantity of layers, it was hard to see what was actually him and what was fabric. The largest and most present of these layers was a long, tan coat with many medals on the front, a little of everything, army, navy, marine corp.

 

"It is no problem. I am fond of the company, yes?" he said, eyes lifting up to reveal bright violet that heralded from only one place. Drachma. Suddenly any inclination towards kindness to the man disappeared, replaced with a deep suspicion.

 

"What is the matter, friend? Has the cat gotten your tongue?" he said with a chuckle, because he knew what unease lie between the two rapidly growing powers, especially now that Amestris seemed to have no interest in expanding outwards. Not to mention he enjoyed toying with people.

 

"Well damn me, Ivan Braginsky, what are the odds?" said Francis, a slow grin spreading over his face.

 

"You know this guy?" said Alfred, the suspicion turning to the man with one arm.  

 

"It's been years, but yes. He used to be a bodyguard of the ambassador, who frequented the restaurant I worked at, though he shifted around. How did you put it?"

 

"Any place that has seasons is a home well enough for me." said Ivan smoothly, as if he had said it five minutes ago and not several years ago. "I do not like the cold. It is...unpleasant." he said, though his tone was certainly cold itself.

 

"Your face is unpleasant." grumbled Alfred, but if the Drachman heard, he decided not to comment on it. Ivan and Francis were talking now, a mix of accented Albion and Franconian he didn't bother listening to, instead downing the rest of his bourbon and moving to get another. Arthur went with him, having run out of his precious gin.

 

"Who'd have thought they'd know each other, huh?" said Alfred, leaning against the counter while the bartender made his drink.

 

"It is a bit odd." commented Arthur, crossing his arms over his chest. "But you heard Francis, this man's been everywhere. Though those eyes...something about him just gives me the creeps." he said, a slight shudder passing through him.

 

"I could drink to that." said Alfred, taking his now full glass off the counter and drinking it shot style, causing him to cough at the added burn he'd neglected to account for. He heard a snicker and shot a slight glare at the man, which naturally had no effect.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next several minutes were quiet ones, filled with the clinking of glasses on rough, stained wood, the two gradually losing their sobriety with every passing second. Alfred's grin was wide, revealing sterling white teeth with a gleam of silver in the back from a filling in need of repair. He'd almost forgotten how good this felt, this buzz, like all the problems were swept away to a loopy sort of bliss. So much so that he almost didn't hear the groan from his company.

 

"Fuck. Of all the rotten luck..." murmured the Albion, shifting slightly so that Alfred's body hid him from the door. Alfred, puzzled by this, turned his gaze towards the entrance to find yet another newcomer.

 

He was a short man, and a little on the thin side, with jet black hair tied back into a ponytail and curling around to the front of his neck. He was from the East obviously, if the slightly slanted brown eyes and bright red kimono had anything to say for it. His expression was a tired one, like that of an old man exhausted by simply surviving the day. But other than the fact that he was one of the few non blondes in the establishment, he was pretty unremarkable looking.

 

"What, is this guy your worst enemy or something?" he joked, his words slightly slurred but still mostly understandable.

 

"Pretty much." he said, his words far more a mess but Alfred could still pick them out.

 

"You're kidding."

 

"No I am not!" he said, indignant but still hiding behind his frame. "You know how I said I fought in Xing? He was on the other side." he explained, and suddenly Alfred wondered what great atrocity he had to commit to make him so terrified.

 

"What did ya do, kill a member of his family or something?" he said, none of his admittedly limited tact left with his current state of intoxication.

 

"Depends on who you ask." he said cryptically, and Alfred turned his gaze back to the man, now sitting at the bar with a clear alcoholic beverage before him. He sent a nervous smile and simply got a roll of the eyes in return.

 

"You know, you can't hide behind me all night." pointed out the Amerigan. "I've gotta go to my hotel at some point." He'd almost forgotten his reasons for coming in his haze, he had a city to explore, heroes to meet. Enjoying the time while he still had it.

 

"Watch me." snapped back Arthur, and had Alfred been more sober, he might actually have heeded the threat apparent between them. But he was far from sober, so with a mischievous glint in his eyes he stepped to the side, calling out to the man from Xing.

 

"Hey you!"  The Xingese man turned towards him. "I've got a friend who wants to talk to you." he said with that infamous grin, gesturing at Arthur. His expression changed from one of confusion and annoyance to completely and utterly furious, indicated by the slight furrowing of his brow and narrowing of eyes. But Alfred didn't see this change, because he was too busy being choked by the Albion.

 

"You idiot! Are you trying to get me killed?!" he shouted, but Alfred could not respond seeing as he was being strangled, and thus unable to breath. Francis and Ivan, having noticed the commotion and not wanting the Amerigan to die, quickly walked over and pried Arthur off of him, Ivan holding Arthur by the back of his shirt as one might do to the scruff of a misbehaving puppy.

 

Alfred took deep, somewhat wheezing breaths in order to get his composure, breathing out a weak 'thank you' in the direction of Ivan. Arthur thrashed for a moment in the Drachman's hold before giving up, hanging his head like a man on a noose.

 

"So this is what you've been up to, Arthur." said the man from Xing, who was now standing between Francis and Ivan, the anger and disapproval apparent on his face. "I wish I could say I was surprised." His accent gave a bit of odd inflection to the words, an extra sound or two hooked onto the end that sounded like 'aru' or 'ahen.'

 

"As if. I'm not staying in this industrial pit hole longer than I have to. But politics call, as I'm sure you know Yao." he said, and there was something in the way he said it that made the man, Yao, stiffen.

 

"At least I do something useful with my position, unlike some people." he said, accusing. The three others could do nothing but listen to the two, and a few other eyes were watching the scene with laughter hidden between their lips. It was like something out of a comedy.

 

"You make it sound like I chose to go into politics." he said. his voice bitter. Alfred, having somewhat recovered from being strangled, decided to read the mood for once, and realized that if he didn't get these two to be somewhat civil, he was definitely going to get kicked out of here.

 

"Yao, if you promise not to kill Arthur, I'll get your drinks for the rest of the night." he promised, a rather easy one to fulfill since they were free for him. There was a pause from the awkwardly assembled group, and then a nod.

 

 

* * *

 

 

And so that was how Alfred ended up where he was now, sitting next to flamboyant Franconian with one arm, across from two mortal enemies glaring at each other through one distressed looking Drachman. (He didn't mind that last one so much. Damn commie.) The only peace-making device he could think of was to keep supplying alcohol, until they got too drunk for reason or passed out. His trips for gin, vodka, wine and baijiu-as well as his own bourbon-were frequent, and resulted in reason loss much quicker than a normal night out. Though Arthur's was...unusual, to say the least.

 

"What the hell am I?" asked the Albion, body hanging over the table, cheek pressed against the hard wood as one hand held his glass, the other laid out before him.

 

"Uh, I just met you tonight, but I'm pretty sure you're a human." said Alfred, stretching out the 'e' sound in pretty. He had a tendency to state the obvious while intoxicated.

 

Not like that you twat!" he snapped, though it was ruined by the slurred quality of his voice. "What kind of person am I? Am I a military man? A politician? Catholic or Protestant? God I don't know!" he bemoaned lifting his head for a moment before letting it fall to the table with a thunk.

 

"I think you're pathetic." said Yao, predictably.

 

"Do not worry comrade." said Ivan, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It does not matter what any of us are when we are dead, da?"

 

"Dude, that is fucking creepy." said Alfred bluntly.

 

"The rosbif has a point though." said Francis, his own body still set in the same position it started in, save his head balanced in his hands, arms resting on the table at the elbow. "What are any of us really?"

 

"Ah man. Don't tell me you get all philosophical while drunk man." The quantity of 'man', 'bro', 'dude' and other such words in Alfred's speech went up significantly whilst drunk. (Though his usage with sober was more than one would consider normal.)

 

"Perhaps. But it is a bit unusual, wouldn't you think? Here we are, five men from all different countries, walks of life, and ages, alike only in our participation in warfare. Why it sounds like the beginning of a bad joke!" he exclaimed, taking a swig of his third(?) bottle of wine. (Alfred was losing count.)

 

"But where's the punchline?" said the Amerigan, quite the connoisseur of such cringe-worthy attempts at humor. "Oh, I know! How about a promise to save the world?" he said, his hero oriented attitude shining through.

 

"Why not?" said Ivan, that cool tone sending shivers up everyone's spine. "It is not like anything will amount from it." he pointed out, letting the idea settle in alcohol laden minds.

 

"I guess it won't do any harm." said Arthur, lifting his head once again. "And if the world does end, I want this lug on my side." he said, patting Ivan, a fact that no one could really argue with. He was not the sort of man you wanted as an enemy.

 

"A deal then?" asked Francis.

 

"A deal." said the others, all at the same time, causing laughter to bubble off Alfred's lips and Yao and Arthur to glare at each other again.

 

"Aiyah! But how will we contact each other if something does happen?" exclaimed Yao.

 

"Dude, it's not like anything will really happen." scoffed Alfred, and so that glare was now aimed at him.

 

"Xingese men always keep their promises, no matter how pointless they might seem."

 

"I hate to say it, but the bloke's right. It's not like we'll be seeing much of each other." pointed out Arthur, and so the group once again fell into a thoughtful silence.

 

"Well, we all have phones right? I know my commander has one for communications. You civilians probably have one at home too." proposed Alfred.

 

"Who you calling a civilian?!" said Arthur angrily.

 

"Fine. Ex-military men." corrected Alfred with a roll of the eyes. Whatever he was, he sure was touchy.

 

* * *

 

 

A few minutes later and a scrap of paper was procured for the purpose, starting with Alfred's large, sloppy print and then moving to Arthur's no nonsense, by the book cursive. It transitioned into Francis's more whimsical cursive script, then Ivan's standard, block letter writing, and ended with Yao's quick, small symbols.

 

Alfred copied all of the information into the small leather book his brother had given him, mostly full of doodles of aliens and hamburgers, now actually used for something useful. Arthur jotted it down in a far neater looking ledger, Francis on the back of the list of prospective establishments he could be hired at, all crossed off now. Yao said he had memorized the numbers, and Ivan tucked the original sheet into one of his many pockets.

 

"Now that this issue has been taken care of, where would we meet for such a thing?" asked Ivan, seeing as if it was serious enough to require numbers, it was probably also conceivably serious to need a meeting place.

 

"Why not right here?" posed Alfred, gesturing to the bar around them, now almost free of patrons. No one else could find a flaw in that, and indeed there seemed some sort of basic rightness in meeting back in the place where such a foolish promise was made. They all left shortly after, as the bar was closing and they were all  in need of rest, bodies floundering to their respective hostels for the night. They did not say goodbye. It felt too formal, an acknowledgement that the events of the night were real on a more permanent level. That, and their minds were rather busy just trying to see in front of them, let alone communicate.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As a perfect example of this, after ingesting a god forsaken amount of bourbon, Alfred’s gaze was blurry, like his glasses had been knocked off, even though he could feel the slightly too tight sides pinching at his skin. His mind was barely held together as he stumbled towards his hotel, somehow managing to check in and flop into a comfortable enough bed, the night's events already slipping away with his consciousness.

 

His own thoughts were limited to the basics, sleep, and hunger, and the gnawing knowledge that tomorrow would be hell, but in a little brown ledger, resting in the front of his iconic jacket, the numbers still remained, waiting for the chance for that drunken promise to mean something. It was a foolish thing, impossible on most scales. And yet, someday, the events that occurred on October 26th, 1918 would save the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some additional notes.
> 
> 1) The nationalities of the main five were based loosely on this map (http://generalhelghast.deviantart.com/art/Fma-world-map-166239755). However, we do not use the ideas of the nations with that. If anything does line up, it is coincidental.
> 
> 2) We're aware of the unoriginality of Amerigo. Sue us. But don't. Please. 
> 
> 3) We are ignoring the movies, but otherwise it does follow the timeline of the Fullmetal Alchemist manga and Brotherhood. We know, we had to make one for backstory purposes. 
> 
> 4) Here's a visual for Francis done by the lovely Kirono. (http://kirono.tumblr.com/post/88366338996/francis-commission-for-oboeist3)
> 
> 5) Character death, get used to it. It will happen a lot, both in the past and during the story, though far later.
> 
> 6) This fic will be broken into three parts, the first fifteen chapters long.
> 
> 7) While feedback will be taken into account, this is pre-written. No suggestions will be taken.
> 
> 8) FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SAY IF YOU LIKE IT. IF WE DON'T KNOW PEOPLE ARE INTERESTED, WE WON'T HAVE THE MOTIVATION TO CONTINUE. 
> 
> 9) Have a nice day!


	2. Ivan vs. Wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Graphic descriptions of violence are in this chapter.

 

_**Four years later** _

 

Purple eyes peered out between thick layers of leafs and flowers, grooved boots digging into the hard bark below him. Gloved fingers gripped at the cool metal of a large pipe, waiting for it's time to be used. Red still touched the tip for previous encounters, small dents here and there around the curved end.

 

Had you told a younger, more innocent Ivan he'd become a ubiytsa, an assassin, he'd have laughed in your face. But things were different now. Things had been since what happened six years ago. He could still remember their screams, cries of help while she stood there, watching, eyes colder than the ice and snow.

 

Fury boiled in his blood, teeth gritted but he pushed it down. Now was not the time to be rash. He'd need every bit of his intelligence to pull this off, to break into Central command and stare down the women who ruined everything.

 

His current perch, in the cherry blossom tree by the East gate, had been to observe, to try and find the weak point. As expected, it wasn't easy. But Ivan hadn't been idle, his knowledge of architecture was more than most in the business. And only a few meters above him, tucked away to keep from its use for his very purpose, was a door into the electrical system of the buildings.

 

Of course, there was a guard, standing next to the door, looking bored out of his skull. Good. Bored meant unobservant. His other hand moved to a pocket on the left side of his coat, pulling out three small cylindrical objects, thumb flicking the hooks off as he poised to jump. A flick of the wrist to the left and he pushed off, not waiting for the loud boom he knew was coming.

 

Sure enough, the ringing of an explosion caused the guard to rush to the edge of the roof, giving Ivan just enough time to shoot himself behind him, footsteps quieter than one might think possible for a man his size. His heart was racing, his eyes flicking between the man and the door. He opened it slowly, mindful of the slight rust he'd noticed on the hinges, before slipping in and closing it with a quiet click. He smiled. Now came the hard part.

 

He cast a quick gaze to his surroundings, dark, dank. The only light from the occasional wayward spark and the seeping light of the rooms below. From another pocket came a torch, casting a soft beam into the darkness before him, bouncing off the many dust particles, scurrying a few rats. He did not mind them. They were not sovet plote, flesh rats, the ones who feasted on the dead and dying, hissed at their living counterparts as a dare to defy them. No one did.

 

Ivan moved forward, shoes clicking slightly against the concrete, though no more so than the humming of machines and hissing of pipes. On either side of him were the weaker parts of the ceiling, where all the wires poked down like an IV into a sick man. Some things floated up from below as well, bits and pieces of conversations.

 

"-expected quota by the end of the week-"

 

"Sheska needs these books to cata-"

 

"-hope the missus doesn't kill me for being late." There was a bit of nervous laughter with that one.

 

"-Mustang still off in Ish-"

 

"-with her fiance. I know! The scan-"

 

"-about those newcomers in North City?" That one peaked Ivan's interest, and he stopped for a moment. An old loyalty, perhaps, to some people of six years ago.

 

"What, those religious ones?" asked another voice, female, probably middle aged.

 

"Nah, some foreigners from the South. Bought up some old manufacturing buildings. Seem harmless enough though. Say, you have those reports-" Ivan stopped listening at that point, chiding himself for getting distracted. Nevertheless, he had kept the count of steps in his head. He knew that _her_ office was exactly 1027 strides from the East gate, give or take. He was at 912.

 

115 steps later and the click of his boots once again stopped. To his right was a large pipe moving gas into the office, used to light the fireplace in winter, even though they were tame here. It's girth was large and combined with the various other electrical cords and pipes, ended up taking most of the width of the office. 5 meters, he knew, as was standard. His idea of dropping directly into the office was shattered, but he adapted quickly.

 

To his left was one of the sliding tiles of the weak part of the ceiling, like the kind that made up the roof of the small school in his village, cheaply made in this very country. He slid it open only a few centimeters, and peered down over the edge. The height of the rooms was small in this part of Central, only about twice his height, a distance he could jump without fear of serious injury. But another factor stood in his way. A guard.

 

This guard was different from the one outdoors, concentrated, staring straight ahead with perfect military posture. His hair was blonde, slicked back, not one strand loose. Ivan could see a hint of blue, icy, determined, and black, the glint of glasses perhaps. He was too far away to see properly. Ivan knew these sort of men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts. A perfect military dog.

 

It presented a serious problem. He didn't plan on killing anyone but his target, cleaner that way. Less likely to be caught. But he could not distract him, he had no more flash bombs, and even if he did, this one would know better. He'd look for a source. Ivan licked his lips, bit the bottom one. Let his fingers curl tightly on the pipe. He couldn't stop now. Not when he was this close. He would just have to do it.

 

Centimeter by centimeter, he slid the panel, until the opening was just wide enough to squeeze his frame through. He knew he must be quick, silence the guard before he cried out. A snap of the neck, quick, mostly painless. Far better than he'd give her. The thought of that drove him to jump down, his feet thumping on the floor and arms moving the pipe to the front of the guard's neck, pulling back and earning a slight gasp.

 

"Sorry comrade. I hope your sleep is restful." he said, moving the pipe back to snap his neck, only instead of the familiar crunch of bone, Ivan felt an elbow in his gut, knocking the wind from him and pushing him back. His arms quickly tried to adjust his balance so he wouldn't fall, windmilling outward, no longer holding the pipe to his neck.

 

It shocked Ivan of course, no one had even attempted that, nor been strong enough to succeed. He oriented himself fast, but not fast enough it seemed, because there was a fist heading straight for his eyes. He dodged, but it still grazed his jaw, forceful enough to bruise later. He stepped back slightly, getting a better look at his attacker.

 

The guard was taller than he’d assumed from above, only about five centimeters shorter than himself. Muscle showed even through the dark blue fabric of his uniform, yet it was sparse in honors. Low ranking. Unlikely to have served in heavy combat. There was a small firearm tucked into his belt, a Dreyse probably. However, the main point of interest was a large black patch covering his right eye. A significant weakness, a wide blind spot. All this was noted in the blink of an eye.

 

Just as the guard was about to throw another punch, Ivan moved left, swinging his pipe at the man's right leg. A hit, but not where he wanted, just on the shin. Nothing debilitating. It did warrant a muttered 'shit' under the blonde's breath though. His expression was not angry though, just...annoyed. It both confused and angered Ivan, this man should be trembling, or at least a little scared. He swung again, harder, with fury instead of the calm control he needed in fighting a man like this. The man was faster this time, dodged it, stepped back like he had earlier.

 

This pattern continued, swinging and dodging. Sometimes he'd get a hit, but never anything too damaging. The man was fast, more than normal for a man his size. Ivan's fury only grew because of it. He did more risky attacks, ones that left him vulnerable, something the guard noticed. He started an offense of his own, kicks at his side that were far more successful. One hit its mark beautifully, causing Ivan to stop, his free arm clutching his side and face twisted in pain. It was followed by a punch, knocking him to his knees. His breaths were little more than gasps at this point, vision blurry. It was an unexpected downside of his profession, his endurance had dwindled.

 

The guard was holding him down, one hand holding his wrists back, the other pressing down hard on his right shoulder. Ivan could feel the tread of his boots as he stepped on his thighs, hissing at the pain of his weight pushing down. He saw thick fingers reaching for the gun, something Ivan could not allow. He would not die here, not by the actions of this man. Not before he had gotten his revenge.

 

In a last ditch effort, Ivan threw his weight forward, headbutting the man's chin with enough force to make his teeth clack together, and though it did not affect his stance, it loosened the material holding the cloth to his eye, black fluttering lazily to the ground. When Ivan looked up from it, he gasped in shock. The eye was white, milky, with faint pink scars on the top and bottom, and a bright red symbol smack in the middle.

 

"Ouroboros." Ivan breathed out. "You are marked with the ouroboros."

 

The man, no, the homunculus, seemed surprised for a moment, using the arm previously reaching for the gun to cover the unnatural eye. "How can you see it?" he growled, the first real words from the monster. His voice is gruff, angry. "No matter. In a few moments, you won't be seeing anything." he said, the hand leaving his eye and once again reaching for the gun.

 

Ivan's mind was racing, unable to process it all. How could this be? The homunculi were wiped out in the coup, or so those documents told him. The ones that gave a reason to the tragedy, gave him a name to hunt, started his whole mission, every step to get here. And yet here he was, about to be killed by something that shouldn't exist. Unless...

 

It was risky, perhaps futile, but it was his only hope of getting out of this alive. As the kovanlovek, the man born of the forge, clicked the safety on his Dreyse, he threw his weight again, this time to the side. A scream tore at his throat as he felt the bullet hit, tearing through skin and muscle, embedding itself in bone. It echoed off the walls, loud and anguished, but no one would ever hear it. The homunculus made sure of that. There was a click, bang! Another shot. Ivan did not scream this time. He had not the energy for it.

 

Blood dripped from the wounds like water off icicles, staining the beige coat and pooling on the cool white floor. The pain seared his nerves, overwhelmed his mind. He'd been shot before, but never this close, never this damaging. The weight was gone from his thighs now, his hands no longer held back, but he did nothing. It was all too much. He felt like a broken matryoshka doll, left shattered on the floor. Body slumped, treacherous heart spilling more blood that he desperately needed. Black crept in the corners of his vision, took away his surroundings, until the pain slipped away with the rest of himself.

 

 

* * *

 

The homunculus looked down at the problem he'd disposed of, sighing in annoyance as he saw the blood spreading outwards. Why was it always him who got these problems? He never heard of the others being attacked by humans from the ceiling. He pinched the bridge of his nose to keep the anger at bay. He needed to focus on this. Even with his powers, hiding a body this size would be damn near impossible in Central, and he could not afford questions anywhere near him.

 

He picked up his eyepatch, pointless really, since no one could see what was underneath unless he wanted them to. Except this one...He might have to look into that. He flopped over the hulking form of the man, nose crinkling at how dirty he was, bloodstained coat getting red on his fingers. Not to mention the pool of blood he would have to clean later.

 

He searched various pockets, trying to find an ID of some sort, but was largely unsuccessful. Cigarettes. A lighter. A flask half filled with vodka. Crumpled paper money, some from Amestris, some from Drachma. Keys. A piece of paper with some phone numbers on it. A passport. Wait. He picked up the last item, flipping it to the front cover. There was a picture of the Drachman, younger, but not smiling. The guard slipped it into his pocket, placing the other, worthless things back in the coat.

 

Now came the predicament, where to put the body. To hide it within the building would be stupid, as he could barely keep himself from being noted by people, let alone himself and a body. But to walk out with a hulking Drachman draped on his shoulders was bound to be noticed no matter how badly he clouded the witnesses' minds.

 

He scraped his mind, trying to find some loophole, some little detail to avoid attention. Then he remembered. The south side of Central command faced the manufacturing district. Full of warehouses and machine operated factories, there would be little to no people to see him. It didn't hurt the high rate of violent crime in the area. The man's death would be brushed off as just  another victim of a bloodthirsty maniac. And with him being a foreigner, any sort of investigation into the cause of death would be a paperwork nightmare. No one would bother. Still, he supposed he'd have to dispose of this gun. A shame. He liked this one.

  
The guard, having decided this the best option, picked up the Drachman with ease, taking the pipe from a dead man's grip so it wouldn't hit him as he walked. He kept to the back ways, thankfully avoiding encounters with humans. They were such a pain to deal with. Once out of Central command, he only walked a few blocks, unceremoniously dumping the corpse onto the ground. He wiped off his hands on his pants, already near ruined by blood. He sighed. What a fun night he had ahead of him.


	3. The Little Girl & The Drachman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic descriptions of bloody gore, though not for particularly long. After the second page break, Ivan's thoughts are in italics.

She knew she shouldn't be out here. Not when the sun was setting and the gas lamps were being flicked on, one by one, and certainly not in the manufacturing district, a place of petty crime and creaking machinery, continuing on while the humans slept. But Elicia had a cat to find, and she was not going to stop until he was found.

"Cassy? Where are you?" she called out as she edged along cool cobblestone streets, peering carefully into alleys and gutters, where lamplight glinted off metal and blank stone. She listened for a sign, a meow or pitter-patter of paws in the darkness. A glimpse of the distinctive orange fur that inspired his full name. Caspian, a king of light in a dark world. Just as hers had been when she got him.

"Cassy?" she said again, continuing to cautiously pierce the dark, step by step, eyes darting back and forth with wide blown pupils, greedily eating away the world. Then, just for a moment, she caught it, a shrill meow in the dark, and she set off after it, the sound of her quickening footsteps echoing off the stone.

"Caspian!" she called, a grin of relief on her face at the thought of finally finding him. She followed the meows that kept following, into the alleys, around corners and past whirring machines that creaked and groaned with each movement. Finally, she could see him, sitting in front of an alley, his proud figure sitting calm and complacent, as if he had been waiting for her. It was so hard to tell with cats.

She was quick to scoop him up, press his small body up against her chest and hold him tight, eyes closed and happy once again. "Oh Cassy, I'm so glad to see you!" she said. She didn't know what she would do if she lost him. She had already lost so much.

However, the cat gave a hiss of displeasure and managed to squirm out of her arms, padding down to the ground and looking at the alley, his posture like that of a pointer dog, indicating a find.

A puzzled expression found it's way on the eleven year old's face as she looked at him, seeing the orange fur had hints of red around his muzzle and sides, not just any red either. Blood red. She knew it well.

"What's the matter Cassy?" she asked, her voice holding a heightened fear forgotten upon finding him. She was scared suddenly, of the dark, and the walls, and the deathly silence.

The cat simply continued to peer at the alley, looking back at her and meowing, demanding she do so as well. Slowly, she raised her eyes up, squinting as they adjusted to the dark, and then screamed.

There was a man in the alley, big and tall, and he was covered in blood. Suddenly it seemed like it was two years ago, when she slipped into Central Command's records, curious about what had happened to her father, what had killed him. The pictures were seared into her mind, the man she could barely remember, crumpled like an old can, red spreading out from him, so much red it didn't seem real. His fingers still curled around the telephone, and the corner of a picture of her and her mother poking out from the pool of red. It was in the file too, and despite all their efforts, no one had been quite able to get rid of the red.

She'd taken that with her, her biggest secret, held in her pocket day and night. Mother had never told her how he died, so violently, with so much blood. Every time she even mentioned him, she seemed to curl up on herself, and it only took a little while before she stopped asking. But at night, when everything seemed heavier, she would take it out and trace over her father's stubbled jawline, the stray hairs that poked out from his head, the glasses perched on his nose. It made her feel better, to have some way of remembering what he looked like. Mother got rid of the family pictures a long time ago, threw them out with almost everything else he had.

She was jarred out of her thoughts by a weak groan from the man in the alley, not dead like Daddy, not yet. Purple eyes, Drachman, looked up at her, so much pain in them.

"Pomogite mne." he gasped out, and though she didn't understand the words, she did. "Pozhaluysta, pomogite mne!" he begged, a hand somehow stretching from the dark to the light, white and red, before falling with a small sob. Yet she could do nothing. She was frozen in the spot, unable to move.

She just shook her head, unaware she'd been crying until she saw droplets of water fall to the cobblestones, clear hitting red. The man sighed, or maybe it was a gasp, but it reminded Elicia of her mother, how she would sigh when the emptiness of their apartment seemed too much, when the silence seemed too big for two. It reminded her of how her mother had given up, and she realized she didn't have to. This wasn't her dad, he wasn't dead yet. She could save him.

She was running before she could even realize it, faster than anything, towards the city center, towards people that could help. It was a blur of movement and intent so fast she couldn't really understand what she was doing until she was pulling on the arm of a passing general, begging him to come help, blood on her shoes and crying her eyes out.

* * *

Ivan blinked open his eyes and saw white flecked with black in alternating rectangles. A ceiling, his brain provided, before the pain hit his system. He let out an automatic groan and closed his eyes again, trying to seek some relief in the dark. It didn't work.

It wasn't the first time Ivan had woken up in an unfamiliar place with little to no recollection of how he got there, but usually there was a headache and far less clothes.

After a few moments of recognizing that yes, he was in pain, and that it wasn't going to stop any time soon, he took a moment to access his surroundings. It was clearly a hospital room, what with the lined cots, all empty for now, the IV feeding what seemed to be blood into his arm, and the faint smell of lemon cleaning product.

Even in his state of half consciousness, he felt something nagging at the back of his mind, something urgent, but then the double doors opened and a nurse came in. She was a pretty unremarkable nurse, all and all, with brown hair and eyes and a trained smile on her face. He had seen a million like her and would probably see many more before his time was up.

"Good morning sunshine!" she said cheerfully as she placed a tray before him with food and drink. "It's good to see you up at last. You worried your daughter half to death, you know?" she commented as he took a sip of water, and then promptly spat it out.

"I don't have a daughter." he said between coughs, which made his shoulder ache even more. Why was that again? He couldn't quite remember.

The nurse seemed truly puzzled by that. "Well there's a little girl who's been waiting for you to wake up. Been up here for days, on and off." she said, shrugging. "She's here now if you feel up to talking." she said, looking over his bandages and accessing his state before leaving with another one of those muscle memory smiles. It was a good thing to have when you had to tell someone they were dying, though Ivan knew he wasn't. He was never that lucky.

A few moments later the door opened again with a soft squeak, only a crack, before closing again. At first Ivan couldn't see anything, until his gaze shifted downward to find a little girl standing there, feet together and looking at him with a mix of trepidation and curiosity. He felt a sense of familiarity nagging at him at the sight of her, like when you first see someone you met out of the usual routes of things.

"Hi." she said eventually, tearing her gaze up from the floor for a moment.

"Hello." he responded, in lack of anything better to say.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Less dead than I would have been." he said, bluntly. No point in beating around the bush, he'd found.

"That's good."

"Debateable."

"Why would you say that? Wouldn't your family be sad if you died?" she asked, the picture of childish innocence.

The words were a sucker punch in their good intention, far deeper than he was used to things affecting him now. He tried to keep emotions out of his life as often as possible. Especially after what happened six years ago.

"I have no family." he finally managed to say.

"Oh." she said quietly, looking back at the ground. "I've lost someone too."

"Who hasn't?" he said, his voice holding no sympathy.

Her gaze shot up at that, clearly surprised at the bluntness of his words, but not angry. She almost seemed relieved.

"Most people would consider that rude."

"But you don't." he pointed out.

"How's the shoulder?" she said abruptly, in a way he was familiar with. He had tendency to overstep his bounds.

At that point, Ivan started thinking about why he was in this hospital in the first place. How had he sustained this really painful injury? How did this girl know him when he knew nothing of her?

"A bit stiff." he said, as to not leave her hanging as he continued to ponder the questions.

"I'll let you get some rest then. Um, is it okay if I come back tomorrow?" she asked, shuffling her feet.

Like the girl a few moments earlier, Ivan was surprised. People didn't just **_want_** to see him. It didn't happen.

"That is up to you."

* * *

 

Soon after the conversation with the strange girl, he rested a while, as he wasn't lying about his shoulder. When he woke up again, the lights had been turned on and the small piece of sky visible from the window was dark. The pain was more of a dull ache now, and the silence seemed to lend itself to thinking, so he did.

At first it was straightforward. _Why am I here?_ (In the most literal of senses.) _Because I am injured._ Which lead to the obvious next question. _How was I injured? I was shot. Who shot me?_  This question didn't lend itself to an easy answer. He had to get past the muddled feeling of pain and into the heart of the matter.

"I was shot by the man with the ouroboros in his eye." he said mechanically, blinking after doing so. Then it all fell into place. Amestris had dug itself into a hole yet again. He wasn't entirely sure he should care, but then there was that bit about the rest of the world going with it, and he did still have a job to do. Vendettas and all that.

_I need help. But not from Amestris, I don't know how deep this goes._ Vaguely he considered people from his military past, but they were scattered about Drachma, and somewhat cowardly.

_It's not like I have a group of people at my calling who will just come and save the wor-_

"Shit." he said, thinking about that strange night at the bar with an old friend and some persistent annoyances.

He summoned an different yet equally unremarkable nurse, blonde this time, and less peppy.

"I need a phone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER TOOK THREE MONTHS TO WRITE BECAUSE OF FREAKING ELICIA HUGHES! SERIOUSLY IT TOOK SO LONG AND NOT FOR LACK OF TRYING. SHE'S NEVER COMING UP AGAIN. NEVER EVER AGAIN. EVER!!! -Oboeist
> 
> Seriously I was there I CAME UP WITH HALF OF IT! We had practically no base for her, she appears thrice in the show and AS A THREE YEAR OLD! So if you don't agree well then y'all can go screw yourselves and go write your own fanfictions.I'm sorry, that was mean. You don't have to write your own fanfictions. -Lame Super Hero
> 
> Hello, it's Oboeist again. I'm here because certain author's notes writers don't want to be nice and politely ask for your feedback. She'd be more mean. So this is me, politely asking you to leave a review. While anything is accepted, and praise is wonderful, constructive criticism is preferred. However, if you simply say it sucks, please refer to Lame Super Hero's above comment.
> 
> Have a nice day and DFTBA!


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